The silence of the Archmage King's chambers was louder than the courtroom chaos. Kaen paced the immaculate rug, the plush fibers doing nothing to soothe the frantic buzzing in his soul. The walls hummed with latent power. He was an imposter in a dead man's sanctuary.
He stopped in front of a row of unlit candles. "Okay. Let's try something simple." He remembered Rael's memories—the feeling of drawing on the Pyreth thread of flame, the resonance of willpower. Focusing all his desperate energy, Kaen snapped his fingers at the wick, channeling every ounce of intent he could muster.
Nothing happened. Not a spark. Not even a puff of smoke. He was a magical dud.
Just then, a nervous-looking servant entered with a tray of wine, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. Seeing the "King" staring intently at a candle, the servant froze, his eyes wide with terror.
Kaen panicked. A king who can't even light a candle? He was doomed.
But as he snapped his fingers again in sheer frustration, Mimic acted. A shower of brilliant, harmless golden sparks erupted from Kaen's fingertips, dancing in the air before gracefully lighting the candle's wick. The servant gasped, shielding his eyes from the dazzling display.
"His Majesty shows you mercy, little mouse," Mimic's voice whispered, seeming to come from the very air around them. "He could have conjured a sun to light his candle, but he chose not to scorch you from existence. Be grateful."
The servant trembled, bowed even lower, and practically ran from the room, leaving the wine tray behind.
Kaen stared at his hand, then at the perfectly lit candle. "You… you used an illusion."
"A glittery one, thank you very much," Mimic preened, floating off Kaen's shoulders to admire its work. "And you're welcome. Now, are you going to continue failing at basic magic, or are we going to discuss how you're going to survive the banquet?"
Kaen sank into a chair, the fight draining out of him. "Survive? I just faked a miracle to light a candle. Why me? Why am I here? Where is the real Rael?"
Mimic's theatrical tone softened. It drifted closer, its glowing eyes holding a flicker of something ancient and sad. "The Master is… gone. As for why you, he saw you across the threads." The cloak paused, a rare moment of vulnerability in its voice. "He chose you, you know. Not just because you matched the face. You… laughed the same. Once."
The line hit Kaen with unexpected force. A hint of the man behind the monster, and the lonely artifact who remembered him. "Laughed," he repeated softly.
"Don't get sentimental. It gives you wrinkles," Mimic snapped, its flamboyant persona returning like a shield. "The point is, you have the body and the bloodline, but none of the magic. You're a con artist in a king's robes, and tonight, you have your first performance."
"The banquet," Kaen groaned.
"Precisely! Everyone who wants you dead will be there. Your generals will be watching for weakness. And Lady Nyx Virelia, the Master's ex-fiancée, has the sharpest eyes in the kingdom."
Kaen's blood ran cold. He remembered that name from Rael's memories. A cunning sorceress who dealt in shadows and secrets.
"Does she know I'm a fraud?" he whispered.
"Almost certainly," Mimic said cheerfully. "But don't worry, darling. Just stick with me. I'll narrate, and if someone tries to stab you, I'll make a scene. Now, stand up. Archmages do not slouch. And for heaven's sake, let's pick an outfit that says 'I might incinerate you, but I'll look fabulous doing it.'"
Kaen pushed himself to his feet, the weight of the sentient cloak on his shoulders. He was a fraud, a coward, and his only friend was a theatrical piece of fabric with a broken heart. But as he looked at his reflection—at the tired, anxious eyes staring back from a king's face—he felt a tiny spark of resolve.
"Alright, cloak," he said, straightening his back. "Let's go be the Archmage King."